Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  But I will save you, Koren, Valentina thought. She had become friends with Ofeer, if only for a night. She had vowed to help Ofeer's family. She would keep that vow.

  Claudia stared at her, eyes narrowed, and just the hint of pink flushed her cheeks. There was rage here. Pure rage that simmered, kept at bay but threatening to overflow.

  "Domina," Claudia hissed, and there was no deference in her voice.

  Valentina reached into her purse of golden coins that she had smuggled from the palace. A strong, young slave like Koren could fetch three gold coins in a heated auction. Valentina placed six on the table.

  "Sell him to me," Valentina said. "That is not a request."

  Claudia tilted her head. "You've changed, domina." She let just the hint of impudence touch that word. "You're stronger than you were. Given that you're leaving me no choice . . . take him." She pushed the coins back across the table. "And keep your money. I'm wealthier than you are." She grabbed Koren, twisted his arm, and shoved him toward Valentina. "Go to her, slave. Serve her as you served me."

  Valentina returned the coins into her purse, thankful for them; she would need this money wherever the road took her. She placed a hand on Koren's shoulder.

  "Thank you, Claudia," she said, voice softer now.

  Claudia snorted and rolled her eyes. "Don't thank me. Thank the gods for every day that you still live. You know that if Porcia comes here, I'll have to speak the truth, to tell her that you came, tell her what you said."

  Valentina nodded. "But you won't tell her where I'm going."

  "Not even if I knew." The anger left Claudia's voice. She stepped over the spilled wine, embraced Valentina, and kissed her cheek. Once more affection filled her voice. "Be careful out there, my friend. Ride fast. If you should ride to the northern road, and make your way to the coast of Denegar, and from there perhaps take a ship to Elania . . . I would not think that foolish." She frowned. "What did I just tell you? I forget already."

  Valentina took a deep breath. Elania. The most distant province in the Empire. An island in the cold northern ocean, far from the warm, salty waters of the Encircled Sea. The port that led to Elania lay far across forests, mountains, grasslands, many leagues of wilderness. Even should Valentina reach that port, the waters that led to Elania were treacherous, full of barbarian raiders and pirates. They said that it was every legionary's nightmare to be sent to Elania, a land on the northern fringe of the world, cold and wet and swarming with enemies.

  Porcia will never find us there, Valentina realized.

  She kissed Claudia's forehead, still embracing her friend. "Farewell, Claudia Valerius, daughter of Aelar. I thank you."

  Valentina rode out that very day, and Koren rode on a separate horse, another gift from Claudia. They rode north along a dirt path, staying off the main road. They traveled away from Aelar, away from the wrath and madness of Empress Porcia, away from this warm land along the coast of the Encircled Sea. To the north. To wilderness. To danger. To a hope of fleeing death, a hope of still finding life in the mists of the north.

  As Valentina crested a hill, she gazed south, and she could see the city of Aelar along the coast—a hive of towers and walls and madness.

  "I vow to you, Aelar, I will not forget you," she whispered into the wind. "I flee you now, but I will return, and I will see you cleansed from evil. Until my last breath, I will fight for you, here or in distant lands. I will see the Republic restored."

  Valentina turned and rode on northward, and Koren rode with her, until they vanished into a forest of mist and shadows.

  SHILOH

  She walked through the holy city, wrapped in cloak and hood, tarnished.

  It was night in Beth Eloh. The stars shone above, corridors of light above the alleyways. The air was muggy, so stifling Shiloh could barely breathe behind her veil, and walking through the heat felt like wading through syrup. The cobbled roads twisted, snaking between homes, shops selling candles and scrolls and holy artifacts, granaries, smithies, and ancient tombs. A hundred thousand souls crowded in this hive upon the mountain, this warren of craggy limestone, domes, palm trees, towers, and chains. This city of hope and despair, of splendor and shadows. The ancient capital of Zohar. Dying.

  It was strange, Shiloh thought. Only a year ago, when the kingdom had been free, she would never have dared walk these streets alone at night. The darkness of Beth Eloh had always hidden thieves, rapists, killers. Now legionaries stood with lanterns on the street corners. Now the prisons were crammed with criminals. Now, under the heel of the Empire, the city was ironically safe.

  That is why they conquer, Shiloh thought. Because they see us—the world—as barbaric. As children who cannot govern themselves. They will civilize us. They will teach us their language, force us to watch their gladiators die, force us to kneel before their gods, to become Aelarians as they are. They will bring us law and order and civilization. And they will destroy all that we are.

  Yet surely that was better than death, was it not? Shiloh walked across a courtyard under the fronds of a palm tree. Three stray cats hissed and fled. Surely it was better to live as Aelarians, to lose their culture, their religion, their language, their history . . . but to live.

  "Life itself is holier than old stones and songs," Shiloh whispered to herself. She had to believe that. Had to, or she would falter this night, and she would not sway him.

  She knew the way. Her son moved every night, but his men whispered to her in the shadows, far from the ears of eagles. Shiloh walked up an alley so steep the ancient builders had placed steps upon it, turning it into a snaking stairway that climbed between walls and under archways. Balconies touched overhead, and wooden windows were open against the heat of the night. These bricks were thousands of years old. Shiloh imagined how King Elshalom might have walked here, how the ancient Zoharites might have fled down this road from the onslaught of the Sekadian invaders, and how in many years, should her people survive, perhaps another traveler would think of the souls who walked here during the reign of Aelar.

  Finally Shiloh reached the wooden doorway. A stone arch enclosed it, the keystone engraved with two pomegranates. Shiloh grabbed the knocker—it was shaped like a lion—and knocked three times.

  A hooded man opened the door, a scarf hiding his face, but she recognized his eyes. Here stood Ramael, grandson of the slain Master Malaci—the man Malaci had saved from the cross, giving his own life in exchange.

  "Shiloh!" Ramael whispered and bowed before her. He was a tall young man, handsome despite a crooked nose, his beard closely cropped.

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Ramael."

  He straightened, glanced up and down the alleyway, then guided her inside and closed the door. Shiloh stepped past curtains into a chamber full of men, daggers drawn in their hands. She recognized a few. There was Hanan, once a bodyguard to her husband. There was Kahan Sela, her nephew, a wild man of the hills, now leader of this band of rebels. She recognized Eriz Ben Akadia, a mere boy; Maya had once kissed him outside a bakery. The other faces she did not recognize, but she saw the same foolish pride in all their eyes.

  Boys, Shiloh thought. Mere boys who think they're an army. Who think they can, with a few hideouts and daggers, defeat the empire that rules the world.

  Shiloh had seen enough boys die in her life. She had seen thousands of them die only nineteen years ago, when Zohar had first clashed with Aelar at the island of Cadom. She had seen thousands more perish after her sister, the queen, had died, when her nephews had raised armies and clashed for the throne. And she had seen far too many boys killed in Gefen and here in Beth Eloh, trying to hold back the onslaught of the Empire.

  These boys too will die, Shiloh knew. These boys whom I love more than all the songs, stones, and splendor in this kingdom.

  "May Eloh bless you, Mother of Zohar," said Kahan, kneeling before her.

  "Blessings upon you, Mother of Lions," the others whispered.

  They blessed her? Shiloh wanted to rail ag
ainst them, to strike them, to call them fools. Their rebellions had already cost the lives of countless innocents, slaughtered in punishment for their violence. That blood was upon their hands too. Yet she forced her rage down. These boys were men now; she had to accept that. Men who would honor her for her family name, for her blood of Zohar, but men who would ignore all her pleadings. Men who would see even her die—at their hands or the hands of Aelar—before they abandoned their war.

  "Where is he?" Shiloh said softly. "Where is my son?"

  They gestured to an archway. Shiloh walked between curtains of beads, stepping onto a balcony that overlooked a sloping cemetery. He stood there, looking at the tombstones in the night, hooded and cloaked. Her eldest child. Her Epher.

  He looks so much like his father, Shiloh thought, watching him. Epher was almost as tall as Jerael had been, his shoulders almost as wide. His beard had thickened since this war had begun. His eyes were dark as he stared at the night.

  "Epher," she said softly.

  He did not turn toward her, kept watching the graves below. "These graves are ancient." His voice was low, and he seemed to speak to himself more than to her. "They say that here are the victims of our war with Sekadia, that these tombstones are six hundred years old. That the bodies still wait for our messiah to arrive on a white donkey, to ride through the hidden Gate of Tears, for the heavens to open, for the dead's flesh to return to their bones, to rise again into a kingdom of light." He finally turned to look at her. "But those are only old stories. There is no savior, and there is no rising for those who fall. All those who died here, Mother . . . their deaths are eternal."

  She knew that he was no longer speaking of the ancient graves below. She placed her arms around him.

  "Leave," she whispered to him. "Leave this city as Maya left. Travel east into the desert, and find her, and find peace. Abandon this rebellion."

  "And abandon Zohar?" His body stiffened. "Abandon our people who suffer? I cannot."

  She touched his cheek. "Epher, this war is lost. This rebellion will not succeed. It will only bring more and more death until this land is utterly destroyed. I will not see it. I will not see you die. I already watched your father . . ." She lowered her head, overcome. "I beg you. Flee this war."

  His eyes flashed. "Mother! I will not flee as a coward."

  "Then flee as a son! As my son. If you will not flee Zohar, at least travel south to the fortress of Tarath El in the desert. Hide there behind tall stone walls. Don't you see the folly of uprising against the Empire? Don't you see the bloodlust in the eyes of Kahan, the madness of Zohar's Blade?"

  He sighed. He looked back at the dark cemetery and the city beyond.

  "I see it," he said.

  "Then leave! Leave them. Leave this rebellion, this city. If you cannot sway these men and cannot stop their uprising, you can leave. You don't have to fight."

  "Did Father have to fight?" He looked back at her, his eyes hard. "He could have fled. He could have joined Seneca and served the Empire. He fought."

  "He died!" Shiloh said, too loudly. Her voice rolled through the night. A dog barked in the distance. Shiloh's eyes dampened. How could he not see? How could he not understand?

  But he does understand, she realized when she looked into his eyes again. He knows. He knows that he will die, that they will all die. He's already made his choice. He is stubborn, headstrong, honorable to a fault. He is a Zoharite. He is why our people have always suffered, have always clung to this tiny stretch of land between sea and desert, why we suffered slavery in Nur, captivity in Sekadia, the cruelty of Kalintia, the horrors of Aelar. Because we're stubborn fools who cannot abandon our god, our stories, our willingness to endure torture and death rather than bend the knee. It's both our downfall and immortality.

  Shiloh embraced him and kissed his cheek.

  "I love you, Epher," she whispered.

  He held her, her baby boy, now twice her size. "I love you, Mother. Always."

  She left them in that home—their hideout for a single night before moving at dawn. She made her way back through the darkness, past the stray cats, the beggars sleeping in doorways, the prostitutes, the lepers. She made her way past legionaries, back up to the Mount of Cedars, past the walls and toward the palace. The place where her sister had once reigned as queen, where King Shefael now served his masters.

  Before she reentered the palace, Shiloh paused. She walked across the courtyard, leaned over the balustrade, and stared east. Dawn was rising over the desert, kindling the dunes. Somewhere there, in the land of Sekadia, her daughter was seeking light and wisdom.

  There are no legionaries in the east, Shiloh thought, and she wanted to leave—to leave her nephew on his throne, to leave the rebellion, to leave this city of tears, yes, even to leave her son. She could travel to find her daughter in foreign lands. She could travel south to Tarath El, a great fortress in the sky, and hide there from the world.

  Yet Shiloh turned away from the dawn. Perhaps she too was stubborn, foolish, too foolhardy to leave this land. Because Zohar needed her. It needed her to soothe the wrath of Remus Marcellus with her pleadings and soft words. It needed her to impart her wisdom to Shefael. It needed her to look over the people in this land, a million Zoharites in city, coast, forest, and desert. She was a mother to Epher, and she was a mother to them all.

  "The dawn over the desert is beautiful, isn't it?"

  The voice rose behind her, and Shiloh turned to see him there. A towering man, taller than anyone she had ever seen, yet gaunt, almost haggard. Remus Marcellus, governor of Zohar, wore his full armor of the legions, breastplate and pteruges and crested helm, and his crimson cloak draped across his pauldrons. Despite his words, his eyes did not gaze upon the desert or the dawn. They stared at her, boring into her, eyes like the tools of a torturer, digging through her flesh.

  "It's beautiful, dominus," she replied.

  He stepped closer to her. "I've considered your request, Shiloh. To allow the people of this land to circumcise their sons." He grimaced. "A barbaric practice for a barbaric people. It does not belong in this empire. And yet I will allow it, for you pleaded so eloquently, and I am a merciful lord."

  She bowed her head. "Thank you, Lord Remus."

  He was bargaining with her, she knew. That was all. He would grant Zohar one gift in return for subservience. The people still listened to her. Even the rebels showed her some respect, and Shefael still sought her wisdom.

  He tosses us a spare morsel like a master to a hungry dog, she thought. But he takes from us so much.

  Remus wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, pressing her cheek against his armor. His hands—hands that had murdered so many—stroked her.

  "You must cease your midnight wanderings, my sweet desert rose," Remus said. "The streets are not safe at night. You will remain here, upon the Mount of Cedars, and you will never more leave this place. You are mine now, Shiloh. Mine to protect from the darkness in the world."

  His arms engulfed her. The stench of old blood clung to him. He towered above her; she did not even reach his shoulders. In his embrace, she couldn't see the dawn, the desert, or the city. There was only him—all powerful, all consuming, eternal as a god.

  Our old god was banished, Shiloh thought. There is only him now, only the empire he serves, only his grip, only his shadows.

  She stood with him, trapped, and she did not know if she'd ever see light again.

  OFEER

  She fluttered through the common room of the Lunapar, carrying a tray of wineglasses, her cream stola rustling with every step and pressing against the growing swell of her belly. Light and laughter filled the chamber. The sun had set, but the candles shone in the chandeliers, and flames crackled in glass lanterns on tabletops. The smell of wine, spiced chickpeas, roast lamb on beds of wild mushrooms, and tangy hintan wafted, a heady air. A boy stood on a stage, playing a lute, while his sister sang in a high, clear voice. Many of Aelar's most powerful citizens lounged here on low cou
ches—wealthy merchants, powerful landowners, even generals from the legions. Like butterflies, the lupae moved about the hall, giggling at jokes, stroking men's hair, drinking wine. An elderly prefect, his white hair all but fallen, lay by a boy, listening to the lad sing. A centurion lay on his back between two lupae, one who served him grapes, the other wine.

  "Odelia!" called a wealthy wool monger, a bald man with rosy cheeks and two chins. "Odelia, my darling. Some wine to soothe an old man's soul."

  Ofeer approached him. "You're not old, my friend, but still young and full of vigor."

  He laughed, jowls jiggling, as he reclined on his couch. "Thankfully, you're a better server than a liar. Hand me a glass."

  "Would you care for Polonian vintage, dominus? Or perhaps a deep red from Kalintia, a new arrival in our cellar?"

  "I have no stomach for Kalintian wine, my dear, no more than drinking vinegar. Hand me a Polonian."

  Ofeer served him the drink, then kept moving through the chamber, deftly making her way between drunken patrons and giggling lupae. When her tray of drinks was empty, and the lute player and sister had gone upstairs with patrons, Mariana approached her.

  The brown-eyed lupa took hold of Ofeer's arm and gestured at the vacant stage.

  "Lena Florine says you are to sing." Mariana began to tug Ofeer toward the stage. "You're worth more than just serving wine."

  Ofeer bit her lip and nodded. Yes, she had promised to sing for the crowd, and yet now meekness filled her. She had sung many times in the taverns of Gefen, bawdy songs, her mug raised, her voice drowning under the song of sailors. And she had sung in her family home, ancient songs of Zohar, voice rising with the voices of her family. But she had never stood on a stage before, sung for a crowd. Yet Mariana all but shoved her, and Ofeer soon found herself standing on the small stage—barely larger than a pedestal—a lyre in hand. Around her spread the lewd frescoes, portraying various acts of love and their prices. Ofeer stood silently, facing the crowd.